"Where women glow and men plunder"

conversations, customs, curiosity and comradery

It’s nearly 10pm and all the sleepless magic from the weekend is fading as the work week kicks off and the next big thing looms in the foreground.

I wanted to capture significant moments from Friday and Saturday before they fade. There is no moral nor narrative arc, just recent living moments.

Friday after work in Maitland I was meant to meet up with two very different groups of people at the pub down the road, maybe simultaneously. I was amused imagining all of us crossing paths, but neither were there at 5, so I dashed away to another special place to slyly sip champagne with a friend who was still on the clock. I had a few fast gulps and then on I went to The Metropolitan where, still, neither party had arrived. But I spotted a lovely woman I sometimes work with having a drink outside with someone else who seemed interesting. Flustered and amused I chatted with them and was about to join their table when the first entourage entered the bar. My friend Mel and her gang of glam girls arrived to pregame before a fancy surprise dinner party with Adam Liaw nearby. I bought them champagne and we made fast photos and videos for Instagram until the next collective arrived.

I knew very little about this motley crew of gypsies but I heard American poet Jason Stoneking read a diary entry last Monday night at Poetry at the Pub. He shared how much he hated that he had to love Paris, where he’s lived for many years. It was a hilarious, incredible piece, my previous sentence does it no justice. I wanted to find a way to interview him in person before he left although it appeared they were doing the Great Aussie Road Trip at breakneck speed South to North, up and down, center of the earth, outer space etc. If ever there was Beat Poetry in motion, it was these guys. They’d just been at Michael Hutchence’s grave. They almost didn’t make it to the Metropolitan as Jason had fallen ill due to circumstances I’ll describe in another Substack. Never-the-less I bought a bottle of Pinot Noir for the imbibers amongst the bohos and fried pickles for everyone. There were references to Gonzo journalism and Hunter S Thompson.

I was running late for a birthday party in Newcastle.

It was a night on the cusp of summer and we were all ships on special voyages to individual paradises, be it rubbing shoulders with stars to singing in the cemeteries or just a well-deserved drink at the end of your shift. Mischief, nonsense, and comradery abounded, or maybe people just like you more when you’re buying the rounds.

Whatever, I don’t care if they do.

I skipped to the train station, happy, tipsy and blissfully alone for a moment, eager to get to another girlfriend, Seema. She and I met at Cooks Hill for the birthday. We chatted with interesting, opinionated people. I brought a bottle of red as the gift and Seema brought the wine for us to drink and suddenly we were all crowded around the kitchen table, discussing whether Sylvia Plath’s suicide was a marketing strategy or if Ted Hughes was behind it all. Which comes first, evil or power? At 11pm I hit a wall as the fermented grape juices culminated in my head. I walked home, alone again, still happy, but less so, looking at the sky, thinking of bed, loving deeply to be able roam streets solo after dark with little worries and strange leftover conversations sloshing around me.

The next afternoon I was back in Maitland, this time with ochre on my face at the massive multicultural festival, Riverlights.

I was MCing the Groove Fusion stage, and Emily and her daughter from Mixed Mob Dance Group were the first performers. I wish I could remember which tribe/country she said she was from. Her daughter looked up at her for reassurance, and she confidently banged the clapsticks and danced across the stage. They were only two but they drew a crowd.

Kids from the audience came up and together we ground up the stone and mixed it with water. Emily made marks of clay on our faces. I welcomed the paint, thinking about the many gestures we do to try to heal and help, and how, of course you cannot change history, but opening our arms to strangers, sharing customs, curiosity and kindness is the best (and maybe only) way to move forward as one.

Later that night at the Riverlights Finale the big lights, loud music and giant puppets had folks dancing. The riverbank was throbbing with people, but truly it was the song “Down Under” by Men At Work that took me downstream. When I first arrived in Australia in 2010 I used to listen to the song a lot, thinking how cheesy it was, yet why did it almost haunt me as well? They sang about vegemite sandwiches for chrissake! Why do those silly panflutes or whatever they are make me feel so much?

I felt a lot watching the everyone dance and sing along to this song. I don’t even know what it’s about, but I’m grateful to be here.

”Do you come from a land down under
Where women glow and men plunder?
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover"

Later that night we retire from the festival looking for food and drink, knowing that many doors are closing. (We are moving to present tense now.) I call Omettos and the owner Chris agrees to stay open for us. We talk to him over the counter as he makes us pizzas in the kitchen. We are the only ones in the shop now, and maybe the only ones in all of Maitland. I remember how I used to work at Bucks Pizza in Red Bank, South Carolina and how staying open for someone after closing time is an act of grace that those who do not work in hospitality could never understand. Later Chris joins us at the table for a beer as we demolish our dinner. A friend of a friend generously pays for it all, and everything comes full circle.

These moments continue into Sunday, as exhausted I catch the train back to Newcastle. But my fingers are fading. It’s 12:35 and this is all I have. Thank you for joining us. It is nice to be alive with other humans in the land of plenty.